


We Blew Up a Death Star (and Then We Blew Each Other)

by cognomen



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Age Difference, But everyone's nice and legal, Consent, M/M, Multi, PWP, Safe Sane and Consensual, Shameless Smut, Threesome - M/M/M, established luke/lando relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2019-01-06 17:13:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12215259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cognomen/pseuds/cognomen
Summary: Poe only spends a reasonable amount of time worrying about why the Luke Skywalker’s first and only words to him were an order to report to a cantina on Bespin in three days. He spends exactly thirty six hours trying to figure it out.Leia knows—of course she does—because she comes to Poe about his leave while he’s still mustering courage and formulating questions. She bolsters the former and brushes off the latter, seeming to take a certain relish in ‘you’ll see’.





	We Blew Up a Death Star (and Then We Blew Each Other)

Poe only spends a _reasonable_ amount of time worrying about why _the_ Luke Skywalker’s first and only words to him were an order to report to a cantina on Bespin in three days. He spends exactly thirty six hours trying to figure it out.

 _Leia_ knows—of course she does—because she comes to Poe about his leave while he’s still mustering courage and formulating questions. She bolsters the former and brushes off the latter, seeming to take a certain relish in ‘you’ll see’.

“He probably just wants to grill you about the T-75s,” Jess speculates. “Maybe he’s going to take your job? Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll let you down gently. And while he’s breaking your heart, I’ll keep everything running while you’re gone.”

“What about Snap?” Poe asks, unsure how to deal with the thought that _the_ Luke Skywalker might just want to chat about Starships with him. It was a dream. That _couldn’t_ be it.

Snap appears as if summoned, popping his head out from behind one of Blue Three’s engine turbines. Poe should have known he’d never miss any gossip.

“Nien’s on leave, too,” Snap says. “I’m covering all his flights already, which means Jess is in charge and all our droids are doomed.”

“Shush, Wexley,” Jess snaps at Snap.

Poe is too busy with that new piece of the puzzle to get involved in the ensuing banter. Nien was taking leave? He never takes leave. He always said, ‘ _when the General takes a day off_ , that’s _when I will_ ’.

“Maybe he wants you to help him smooth things over with the General,” Snap speculates, giving a few clicking snaps with his fingers. He seems to be done arguing with Jess over nothing, which means Poe needs to re-enter the conversation. “She’s been obviously skeeved at him, since he vanished and left her to deal with the mess in the galaxy.”

“Oh no,” Poe protests. “No way. That’s family stuff.”

Snap and Jess trade looks and then laugh at Poe in unison, their earlier bickering immediately forgotten. Well, a good Commander can inspire teamwork even in diametrically opposing personalities.

“Well, since you’re _definitely_ not  the General’s favourite or anything, what is it you think Luke wants you for?” Jess asked, hooking her thumbs under her flight vest like he’s seen farmers do with their overalls at nerf-weight guessing competitions.

 _I’m the subject of several bets already,_ he realizes.

“Probably a secret mission,” he postulates. “Something that needs a talented undercover operative.

“Poe, you’re a terrible spy. Your cover with Suralinda was just ‘ _what’s the Resistance?_ ’ Jess laughs. “Get real.”

“Hey, that all worked out, didn’t it?” Poe defends his improvisational skills. “Sort of.”

“Okay, well, you’ll have to tell us all about this mysterious weekend-leave mission,” Snap says, giving Poe a pat as he headed off to presumably change his wager.

Poe doesn’t sleep that night, instead mulling over these options and a thousand others in an attempt to prepare anything he could possibly say to _the_ Luke Skywalker in any situation.

 

-

 

<<R2-D2 is going to be there!>> BB-8 beeps excitedly as Poe climbs into the cockpit of the beat up old Headhunter. It’s less eye-catching than Black One, but hardly a ship he wants to get caught in by the enemy.

“Oh yeah?” Poe asks, as he settles into the pilot’s seat. “Probably going with Luke, that makes sense. How d’you know he’ll be at the cantina?”

<<Threepio told me.>> BB-8 says, with a touch of pride. <<He was pretty upset that R2-D2 was invited but he wasn’t.>>

“Seems like everybody has more of an idea of what’s going on than I do,” Poe mutters, starting the old bird up. “Anything you can tell me about what to expect from this trip, BeeBee?”

BB-8 beeps the droid equivalent of ‘I don’t know’, leaving Poe no closer to a solid, Luke Skywalker worthy opening line than he was before.

He lifts off and plugs in the co-ordinates for Bespin, sighing to himself.

“Do you think ‘reporting for duty’ is too formal?” he wonders.

<<Yes. You’re meeting in a cantina, bro. Try not to call too much attention to yourself.>>

“Right,” Poe says, feeling his teeth clench harder on the end of the word. He hadn’t even considered that they’d be meeting in public. “Of course. I’m sure it’s better not to draw too much attention to _Luke Skywalker_ in public.”

BB-8 beeps an agreement.

“Maybe I better play it by ear,” Poe says, failing to sound like he has any conviction to do so.

BB-8 beeps another agreement.

“But why would-”

A single, warning chirp delivered in an almost gleeful tone from his droid sends Poe into silent contemplation instead, and holds him there for the rest of the short hyperspace trip.

It’s only when he sees the gas planet that the name really clicks in his memory.

“Hey,” he says, as he guides the archaic headhunter into atmosphere. “Is this cantina located in Cloud City by any chance?”

BB-8 affirms.

Poe breathes out hard, trying to reset his scattered thoughts. “What am I going to say to Luke Skywalker _and_ Lando Calrissian!”

<<Don’t freak out.>>

“I’m not-” Poe _is_ freaking out. He focuses on landing the starship and breathing at a meditative pace. He can do this.

Whatever _this_ is.

 

-

 

R2-D2 meets them at the docks, waiting patiently like an immovable rock amidst the tides. People skirted carefully around the droid in a way that suggests violence of some kind has prompted the caution.

Also, the droid is disguised. Poe can tell it’s R2, because the venerable droid has a particular air, and also because the disguise is only two black paint circles applied over parts of the distinctive blue and silver paint scheme. He feels a momentary concern that he hadn't thought to disguise BB-8, as his droid rolls up to greet R2 like an excitable puppy might greet an aging bulldog, and with about the same results.

“Artoo, buddy,” Poe greets the cold, judgmental stare with uncertainty and exaggerated warmth. “Can you tell me a little about what's going on so I'm not walking in blind, pal? A little briefing? What's the Baron Administrator’s favourite wine?”

R2-D2 made a rude blatting-fart noise, extending its third roller abruptly from his lower surface, and gave Poe the most well rehearsed droid cold shoulder he's ever seen. _Cold._

He follows Artoo through the gently curving corridors of Cloud City, passing well dressed citizens and wishing he had time to clean up and put on decent clothes—something other than a taupe jumpsuit under flight gear.

 _Not what I expected. More like a_ mining, wining _and_ dining _facility_ , Poe thinks, amused—and a little terrified. Manic, even. R2-D2 doesn’t give him any time to reconsider. The droid leads Poe to a lavish bar—less the sort of underground and seedy watering hole he’d expected, and more—everything else.

There are sabacc tables populated by upscale patrons wearing nice clothes, and couples scattered at tall tables around the room. Poe would bring his father here, not that he thinks it’s an old person cantina.

Artoo leads him through the crowd and into a smaller space at the back that’s curtained off, which puts him quite suddenly within five feet of two of the biggest heroes of the Rebellion. If Poe thought working with Leia Organa every day for the last few years was going to make him any better at this, he was _wrong._

“Uh,” Poe says, pulling the curtain closed behind him hard enough to make the rings it’s hanging from rattle.

Luke is as mysterious as ever, dressed in an outfit that might as well scream Jedi, though he looks at least less ragged and wild than when Rey brought him back. He also gives no clue—other than a welcoming smile—of why they’re here.

Poe looks at the other figure in the room, and it’s a mistake. Lando Calrissian has aged, but he looks fantastic anyway, with the same smile he’d worn on all his informational articles, and it hooks into something behind Poe’s heart, leaving it fluttering.

“Hey, you’re Commander Dameron,” Lando carries Poe’s name in his mouth like a sweet pastry, and his voice is even richer and smoother in person. “A pleasure to meet you.”

Poe is glad they left the chair nearest the door for him, because he sits in it instead of falling over.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you too, General-uh-Calrissian,” Poe says, his mouth feeling dry. “And good to see you, too--”

Poe realizes he has no idea if Luke has an official rank in the Resistance, and doesn’t remember what his historical rank had been in a moment of treacherous blank mindedness brought on by awed panic.

“Master Skywalker,” he tries while his brain screams ‘ _Red five! Red five!_ ’ over and over like the knowledge will save him.

Lando trades a quirked-eyebrow glance with Luke.

“ _Master_ Skywalker?” Lando says. “You’ve terrified him. What did you tell him this was?”

“I guess I should have been a little clearer,” Luke says, and he chuckles. It breaks out over his features, and transforms him from a serious looking and venerable Jedi to someone younger. A handsome all-grown-up version of the earnest-eyed youth Poe’s mother had described and shown him pictures of.

Poe’s gut twists up like it does when he’s pulling a loop in gravity. He’s got to get himself _together._

“I’m ready for this mission,” he assures them. “I can handle anything, and I’d be happy to--”

“Luke,” Lando laughs. “Put him out of his misery. _Please._ He’s way too handsome to look this serious. Poe—can I call you that?”

Lando Calrissian could call Poe ‘Sparky’ and he’d be happy to roll over and show his belly.

Poe composes himself before he answers, “Yes.”

Lando expects the answer, but he smiles at it anyway, as if _Poe_ just made _his_ day. “Poe, why don’t you have a drink. Relax. There’s no mission.”

“Oh,” Poe says. When had he become so inarticulate? He accepts the drink that Lando pours for him—it goes from a crystal decanter into a crystal glass, and then over Poe’s tongue as smooth as honey. He thinks it’s whiskey, but he can’t feel the burn.

“No,” Luke agrees. “You’ve just earned a place at this table. It’s a very exclusive club.”

“Luke, the ‘very mysterious’ thing isn’t putting our friend at ease,” Lando says, taking pity on Poe and refilling his glass. He explains, “today is the anniversary of the destruction of the first Death Star.”

“Oh,” Poe repeats, in a different tone.

“So, this is the annual meeting of the ‘we blew up a death star club’,” Luke says, as if that explains everything. “And _you’ve_ got the qualifications for that.”

“I haven’t--” Poe starts, but then he _realizes_ ,and he has another sip of his drink. It’s good, and he’s going to regret how easy it is to drink in the morning. “It wasn’t really a Death Star.”

Luke looks at him frankly, and Lando smiles. Poe feels some need to qualify himself out of any prestigious category including these two heroes.

“Starkiller Base used phantom energy--”

“So are you saying you want to go?” Luke asks, grinning at him.

“No, sir,” Poe says. “No, I absolutely don’t want to go.”

“Good,” Luke says, the matter settled. “Then, welcome to the club. While we’re here, I’m Luke— _he’s_ Lando, and no one uses any titles, alright?”

Poe is going to be drinking a lot of this whiskey. No one is ever going to believe him. “Is this the whole club?”

“Nien’s official, too,” Lando says, “but he elected to use his time off to go see her family. Artoo counts. We’d have let Han in, but he never showed up.”

Poe sits back, utterly awed. Lando refills his glass. “Wait, you said annual?”

“Every year for thirty years,” Lando tells him.

 _This is not how I thought this day was going to go_ , Poe thinks. “Even—the last ten years?”

He looks at Luke, incredulous, and gets a shrug as an answer, then looks at Lando for confirmation.

“Nobody ever thought to ask _me_ where Luke was,” Lando says with a grin that could melt ice. Or underpants. Or both at the same time, given some extremely weird fantasy that Poe’s mind just came up with involving ice and underpants.

Then both Luke and Lando burst into laughter, and Poe realizes he’s been had. It relaxes him some, enough to laugh along.

“There was a bit of a hiatus,” Lando reveals. “But Nien and I kept the tradition when the stars aligned. every few years. You never forget it.”

Poe sometimes dreams of it - not with regret, the way he dreams of Jakku, or fear, like he dreams of the _Finalizer_ , but of going around and around inside the oscillator. Always another target to hit, never quite done as time ticks away. Tense dreams.

Lando refills his glass. “So, Luke’s making up for lost time. Think you can keep up?”

“Not sure I should,” Poe says, “this stuff’s pretty intense.”

But, he does. Lando seems to know just the pace to pour to keep them all wet, but not soggy with it. Every so often another serving droid appears and refills their water or brings Lando another bottle, and mostly Poe listens, rapt, to stories of a prior age. He feels warm and awe-struck and relaxed and before the evening has slipped all the way away from him, they get him chatting about the T-75s.

Jess is going to win that bet.

 

-

 

They all lean on each other as they leave, Poe at Luke’s side; Lando at his other, arms inelegantly arranged around shoulders and waists. In truth, none of them is really drunk enough for this level of contact, but it feels good. Lando Calrissian has a way of making the flimsy excuses seem natural. Comfortable. And hell if Poe’s going to miss out on anything that could even remotely resemble doing the walk of shame with Luke Skywalker and Lando— _kriffing_ —Calrissian.

“So, can we count on you next year?” Lando asks, rich and warm and with inviting mischief in his eyes.

“Absolutely, yes,” Poe says. “I’m in. It was—great. I mean, obviously, I’ll have to get General Organa to agree.”

“I think I can handle that,” Luke assures him.

They reach the door of what Poe takes at first to be a richly appointed luxury suite on the Casino level. With a start, he realizes it’s Lando’s apartments, decorated with a few antique blasters along the walls and richly colored furniture, which all looks deep and soft and inviting.

Everything about the place seems to beckon Poe to stay. A second room is partially curtained off from the main with a glittering holographic film that Poe suspects can be made transparent or solid at will. Beyond that is a truly palatial bed, piled with more pillows than he’d bet were in all the stores at D’qar.

They set Luke down on a plus, deep couch, and Lando falls in next to him and then R2-D2 swings the door closed and only then does Poe put enough pieces together to feel lightheaded.

“That is an ugly lamp,” Luke says, pointing to an—agreeably ugly—table lamp that seems to be made out of an old Imperial stormtrooper helmet.

 _Okay,_ Poe thinks to himself, knees weak. _Just because we’re alone in Lando’s private quarters after getting tipsy-nee-sloshed together doesn’t mean-_

“Don’t tell me that,” Lando laughs. “Go back in time and tell the Emperor.”

 _Doesn’t mean this is anything to do with sex,_ Poe forges on, watching Lando casually run his hand up Luke’s arm while they just look at each other, lost gazes like the edges of unknown galaxies. _Get your thoughts out of your pants, Dameron, you starstruck idiot._

“I tried to tell one of his droid clones, once,” Luke says, tone lower as Lando’s hand eases onto his belly, then up his chest. Poe’s heart is doing something crazy and acrobatic in his chest, probably as a result of all the blood in his body making a reckless, gravity aided dive for his penis.

“Would you believe those things had even less humor than the original?” Luke continues, quiet, composed, even as his hand goes palm-flat on Lando’s thigh and runs to the inside of it.

 _They’re just two superheros who are incredibly comfortable touching each other -_ kissing. _Kissing each other. Mouths touching. Kriffing hell, that’s hot._

The kiss goes on a while, wandering hands and slow breathing and then the corner of Lando’s mouth quirks up, and his dark eyelashes part so he can cut a glance at Poe, watching obviously for effect.

Luke leans back, and looks too. His expression is softer, kinder, amused—but encouraging.

“Are you going to sit down?” Lando asks. It’s a clear invitation.

 _It is about sex!_ Poe’s mind crows, and for a minute, he’s almost dizzy with it.

“Uh,” he manages. Poe’s mind stalls out, making a cartoon sound like a coughing, sputtering engine coming to a halt.

“You can go, too, if you want,” Luke says, more gently.

“Of course,” Lando says, and Poe truly understands then that there’d be no hard feelings and nothing awkward. They’re all three adults and able to make decisions and negotiations like this in a sane way.

“No,” Poe says, firmly, and then laughs a little nervously. “Nope. Just a little, uh, overwhelmed.”

Lando cracks a smile and gestures to the couch. “Sit down. You’ll be fine. You can say ‘no’ or ‘stop’ anytime.”

He smiles at Poe and it’s all white teeth and gentlemanly charm and Poe sits down on the other side of Luke abruptly. Poe feels stiff and a little awkward, unsure where to start, so Lando leans over Luke’s chest, eyes on Poe’s mouth until Poe meets him halfway, feeling Luke’s warm flesh-and-blood hand settle against the back of his skull, encouraging.

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but the kiss is normal. A little whiskey-soaked and a lot wonderful, Lando’s tongue moving over and against Poe’s without too much insistence. It does and doesn’t change Poe’s world - it’s a kiss, and Poe’s had others like it before, ones that leave him breathless and dizzy and clutching for contact. It’s a kiss, and it brings down the stars to where Poe can touch and hold them, and he lets it run white-hot from the contact into his blood, heat blanking his mind.

Then Lando eases back and Luke is there, and his hand is rough under Poe’s chin, pulling him up to align their mouths. Poe’s never kissed anyone with quite so full a beard before and he expects it to scratch like two day stubble but instead it’s soft and Luke’s mouth is soft, and Poe has to take all of this in steps.

He’s kissing someone; it’s good; it’s _Luke Skywalker_ he’s kissing, who’s running soft fingers through Poe’s hair, one rough and one cold thumb against his cheeks. He can _handle_ this. Totally.

Then Lando’s hands settle bracing over Poe’s hips and he remembers the full scope of what’s actually happening and forces his thoughts to stay together. He wants this, unexpected though it is and wandering into his life like some strange teenage years fantasy he’d never dared to have. It dawns on him slowly, and then Poe’s walls ease aside. He can’t let his dividing lines stay in place if this is really going to happen.

And it is.

Later on, Poe lies back on the bed and presses his hands over his eyes in the darkness, pushing his palms against his eye sockets and cheekbones until his head sinks into the soft, voluminous pillow beneath him and the pressure convinces him its real.

“I’m sorry,” he finds himself repeating, hearing them moving around the room. “I’m sorry, it’s just a lot.”

The bed dips on one side, but it's so vast Poe feels it only as a faint shift in the mattress.

“Too much?” Luke asks, half in play and equally willing to call this off if Poe doesn’t want it.

“Hmm,” Poe stops rubbing his eyes and the sight that greets him is Lando Calrissian, shirtless. “Nope.”

Luke follows his gaze, and manages to convey ‘rightly so’ with a little wordless tilt of his head. Luke undresses with practicality as a mirror to Lando’s languid grace. He drops his boots with distinct thumps on the floor while Lando looks on with a very attractive version of patient fondness that finally leaves Poe with the belated and dawning realization that this isn’t the first time they’ve done this.

He ticks off a new box in his head next to hero, and smiles. Lando sits down next to him, shirtless.

“You need a few more minutes?” Lando asks. “ _I_ did, the first time I saw Luke Skywalker naked.”

“That was thirty years ago,” Luke protests, laughing. “It’s much less impressive now.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Poe says, reaching out to curl his hand into Luke’s, rough and warm.

“Sure,” Luke says, looking up at Lando over Poe’s shoulder. “He’s young, he’s handsome, _and_ he’s a flatterer.”

“He’s perfect,” Lando agrees, leaning down to kiss Poe again, and then  they’re all leaning into it, huddling together. “You’re perfect.”

Poe agrees that there’s a lot of perfection all crowded against his body, warm and solid—and he lets his hands wander as they let their hands explore. Luke is lean, but soft in a way that suggests he’s overcome a hardship; that his body is honed by recent trial and even more by recent relief.

Lando has a soft belly and sharp teeth and he knows where to put them to take Poe apart; to pull his guardedness apart at the seams, leaving his breath and pulse racing. Poe surrenders and doesn’t know which end is up or who belongs to what sensation. They are all his, and all _theirs_ , and it leaves his mouth wet and his body moving. Writhing and responding; reacting.

By the time they’re all hard, Poe’s had his hands on all three of them—Lando’s slim, curved cock, Luke’s cock, which presses insistent against his palm, even his own familiar length—as he watches them kiss and touch each other. It’s not something he’d ever pictured as a teen, though that was clearly a failure of his imagination.

Not one he’ll repeat.

When he gets his mouth on Luke Skywalker’s(!!) cock, it’s almost as good for Poe as he tries to make it for Luke, and Lando’s hand cradles the back of Poe’s neck, tousles into his curls, strokes approval against Poe’s skin every time Luke groans or sighs in pleasure.

He can feel the change that Lando can see, because the grip on his neck starts to lift Poe off just as the first signs of release gather around Luke’s thighs, under where Poe’s hands rest.

Lando lifts Poe’s mouth to his own and kisses the thin taste of precum out of his mouth, leaving Poe dizzy and breathless and his cock _aching_.

“This is the part where everybody offers to use protection if necessary,” Lando says, managing to make it sound casual.

“I’ve had all my shots,” Poe says, all bravado and heat and ready.

“I’d rather use a condom,” Luke says, practically.

Lando provides for both of them, without further comment, and Poe sits back letting them take the lead. They’ve already proven they have great ideas, so when Lando works a condom onto Poe’s length  with a motion that’s so practiced it’s still sexy, Poe makes a note to ask him to demonstrate how that works, sometime. Sometime when it won’t delay whatever’s about to happen.

“I want to take this hotshot for a ride,” Lando decides.

“What do you think, Poe?” Luke asks him.

“Anything,” Poe says, earnestly. “Just-- whatever you want.”

The idea has him reaching for his own cock again, just for the contact, and Lando laughs, looks him in the eyes.

“I like you. I’m definitely going to make this worthwhile for you,” Lando says, then drowns Poe’s protest by getting a hand on his cock at last; a warm, soft palm with just the right amount of grip.

Luke sits Poe up, lining up behind him, sitting back on his heels and arranging Poe over his lap, where he feels exposed until Lando settles over him. Luke’s front to Poe’s back; Poe’s chest to Lando’s—a connection that could move through all three of them with one sturdy surge of Luke’s hips.

“Oh, man,” Poe breathes. Luke pushes two lubed fingers against him for entrance at about the same moment that Poe realizes Lando is reaching behind himself to do the same to his own body. Poe reaches, gasping, to get his hand on Lando’s cock and stroke him distractingly to help make what was about to happen ( _to_ him? _for_ him?) easier.

Especially with Luke’s fingers thrusting slick and distracting and deep into him. It’s easy—so easy—to fall into the comfortable space between these two and trust that it’s going to work out.

“He ready yet?” Lando asks Luke, kissing him over Poe’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” Poe speaks up for himself, arching his hips so he can slide his cock along the underside of Lando’s. “Yes, absolutely.”

“You heard the man,” Luke laughs—and _that_ , that lifting of his tone out and away from the usual serious cadence he speaks in—is the hottest thing Poe’s experienced yet. It’s a laugh that makes his dick jump, his body ease. “He’s ready.”

Then, by some miracle of co-ordination, they enfold him into them together. Lando rides down onto Poe while Luke presses up into him. Poe’s mind scatters as he tries to process all the individual sensations, and he feels the first beginnings of a slip toward an orgasm he isn’t ready for.

He clamps down on it, his hands over Lando’s hips, trying really hard to focus on _anything_ else for a second.

“Easy, it’s alright,” Lando purrs at him. “We’ve got you, just breathe.”

Poe huffs out a laughing breath and wants to ask Lando where he thinks there’s room for air in Poe’s body. Instead, he takes the minute they give him to ease back from the edge.

“It’s a lot, huh?” Luke asks, against the curve of Poe’s neck.

Poe nods.

“Boy, you should see what it’s like when we invite Chewie,” Lando says, and that snaps Poe’s attention back.

“You--” he manages, trying to form and reject a picture simultaneously in his mind.

“ _There_ he is,” Luke laughs again, and Poe knows Lando is pulling his leg. “You’re going to scare the guy, Lando.”

“He looks like the adventurous sort,” Lando says, as Luke starts to slowly rock up into him. They can’t move much like this, but even a little is a lot when each thrust pushes him up into Lando. “Maybe, I’m just--”

Lando stops to grunt, his voice coming back strained when he continues, “Sounding him out for options.”

Poe groans. How are they so _comfortable_? He guesses it's different to be a galactic hero than to look at them from afar.

_How much closer than this could I really get?_

This seems to last and last, like they have all the time and patience in the world for him, for sex, for each other. It builds a slow warmth inside Poe as they rock and grind slowly toward release.

The angle of their bodies changes slowly as Luke pushes for deeper, longer thrusts, and Lando shifts to help Poe find an angle that teases against his prostate, and then topples—Lando laughing as his back, hits the mattress and Luke grunting his surprise.

“Everybody alright?” Poe asks, as Lando shifts back into place, and Luke steadies Poe’s hips against own so he can get up on his knees.

“Nobody broke a hip,” Luke jokes, giving Poe a reassuring pat, and then driving the breath out of him with a shallow thrust.

“Mine aren’t real anymore anyway,” Lando agrees—another one of those jokes Poe can’t tell how much truth is in, but his hand is lining Poe’s cock back up, and Luke presses hard into Poe who presses slow-but-surging back into Lando and they can all really move this way.

Poe tells himself it’s minutes—it _has_ to be minutes—but it’s so overwhelming it could be seconds or hours before he empties himself out, one hand on Lando’s cock as Luke keeps going, some Jedi stamina trick or just experience.

Poe has the presence of mind to shift, to get his mouth onto Lando’s cock in a sloppy, welcoming swallow in time to feel his release pulse out of him, painting his tongue in bitterness he barely tastes because now _Luke’s_ rhythm is faltering.

For a time, there’s warmth and closeness and stars forming in the dark space behind his eyelids. Bright, then dying and fading again as his center cools and he comes back to himself in a pile of bodies.

 _Limbs. Some of these are mine._ He tries to shift, to be sure he’s not crushing or jabbing anyone uncomfortably. The two other bodies co-ordinate to shift him—loose and pliant—until they’re all comfortable, and then warm hands stroke his hair and shoulders, and his own fingers trace absent patterns against someone’s belly.

 _I hope to the Force no one bet on this,_ Poe thinks. _No one would believe me anyway._

A sudden thought pulls him from his relaxed torpor. _Leia._ Leia would believe it.

“Relax,” Luke tells him, sensing his trouble. “Lando and I don’t kiss and tell. You can worry tomorrow.”

 _I can_ . Poe agrees, closing his eyes again. _I will. Later._

 

-

 

<<I got to interface with R2-D2!>> BB-8 confides, when they’ve almost made it back  to base. The droid sounds so excited and proud, Poe knows that news will be all over the base by nightfall, and he doesn’t have the heart to discourage it.

“You learn anything good, buddy?” Poe asks, instead.

<<Yup!>> BB-8 chirps. <<Did you learn anything from interfacing with Master Skywalker and Master Calrissian?>>

“Yup,” Poe agrees, resigned. “But you shouldn’t--”

<<I know!>> BB-8 warbles cheerfully. <<Artoo told me it was a secret mission, and I have to keep it secret even from C-3PO!>>

Poe’s not sure if she should ask why BB-8 sounds so enthusiastic about that, so he doesn’t. He just sets the Headhunter down on the runway— _suspiciously_ active with pilots pretending to be busy—and tries to work out what he’s going to tell them _next_ year.

 

THE END.

  


**Author's Note:**

> -Really this exists because nobody stopped me.  
> -With love to other multishippers.


End file.
